


pack animals

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Background Animal Death (not Kosmo or done by the characters), Forest Service AU, Forest Service Keith, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Past Regris/Keith, Rancher Shiro, Resolved Sexual Tension, substituting disappearing in the woods for therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:34:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24725350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: Keith looks again and has to hold back a gasp, biting hard on the inside of his cheek. Because he sees this: a sea of wiggling tails and twitching ears and eyes yellow in the shadows.He's found coyotes.Or, Keith gets a new position as a wildlife manager in the middle of nowhere, adopts a coyote pup, and meets a mysterious stranger.
Relationships: Background Hunk/Romelle - Relationship, Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 139
Collections: Black Paladins Bang 2020





	pack animals

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to [galacteddy](https://twitter.com/galacteddy) for creating such gorgeous art for this fic and listening to my scattered ideas! The art is absolutely, without a doubt, very beautiful, and you can find the link [right here!!](https://twitter.com/galacteddy/status/1272971199635755009?s=20)
> 
> Many thanks to [futuredescending](https://twitter.com/futuredescent) for her utmost patience and good humor in beta-ing amid her very busy schedule! Also, thank you to a friend who's a forest service ranger in training and another in another veterinarian in training for humoring my many (and possibly very odd) questions--all mistakes/inaccuracies are my own and/or creative liberties.
> 
> As a note: I do not recommend/endorse taking in wild animals, but I re-read _The Daily Coyote_ and decided to make a sheith fic out of it!

His footsteps are as soundless as the dead, and he moves as silently as a predator. 

If someone had been watching him—in fact, they were, and had been for a while—they would have suspected he was just another hiker in this stretch of wilderness. Still, even with the hat shadowing half his face, they can see the murky blue eyes, violet in the right stream of light and narrowed in concentration, and the dark hair collected in a hasty ponytail at the nape of his neck. They can also see the sweat collecting at the crooks of his legs and down his spine, the pebbles collecting in the soles of his shoes. 

But the man is far from uncomfortable; he tilts his head upwards to catch a glimpse of the never-ending blue sky and land that makes many a person believe the Earth is flat. The land _is_ beautiful, with its rust-red-and-gold hills and tufts of grass dotted with delicate white and yellow flowers, and the quietness that seems to be less and less these days. 

What drove him here, though? It’s beautiful, sure, but lonely. There’s nothing for miles and miles and miles—and more if someone wanted to buy a shirt or fruit—with the occasional telephone pole. It was chilly at night and sticky-hot during the day. You’d see more animals than people on most days, time slow and syrupy. 

He would be lucky if he lasted the winter.

* * *

Keith wipes his forehead but keeps going. His job sounds very _Walden_ -esque, being able to spend full days outdoors, but it’s sometimes far from relaxing. He’s dealt with wounded animals, boisterous tourists (some of whom shouldn’t be allowed outside at all), natural disasters, and government bureaucracy. Some, when they hear it, find it charming or boring or assume he hates people. (He refuses to comment on that front). 

But he wouldn’t trade this for anything. His days are long, but little moments can be rewarding. 

Like today. 

He had spotted the tracks in the dust this morning, and knows them like a childhood song, ridges like the peaks of a mountain stretching from oval-shaped paw pads, much bigger than a dog’s. Many who knew him pegged him as a hot-head with little patience and a twitchy temper, but out here, he could be patient. Most animals don’t want to be disturbed, but they left occasional signs of life—claw and teeth marks, mostly, or scat. These prints are a gift. 

This area’s mostly gray rock, spotted with moss and fallen leaves and tangles of tall grass and bushes that could hide a den. 

Finally, he picks a spot and settles very carefully, holding his binoculars with a steady hand. He's not a fool to get too close. 

Keith knows coyotes are wild things; he wouldn't dare entertain the thought of them being pets. Too many stories of people finding small puppies and turning them loose in the wild, unready and afraid, or simply getting their faces ripped off, clutter his mind. 

Still, he loves them. People hunt them; they don't get the treatment of the noble wolf. They’re like giant rodents, dirty and flea-bitten and preying on either docile herding animals or small domestics.

Something needs to be done in the PR range, Keith thinks, not for the first time. He grew up with the sounds of yipping and howling, some sounding like plaintive cries, but he knew better—even as a kid—to not go looking for them. His dad kept a rifle, just in case, but never had to use it, and Keith had lucky fleeting glances of streaking tails and digging paws. 

His job made it more than that. 

Keith looks again and has to hold back a gasp, biting hard on the inside of his cheek. Because he sees this: a sea of wiggling tails and twitching ears and eyes yellow in the shadows. 

He’s found coyotes.

* * *

That night, he dreams of a den, hearing snuffling and whining, and feels bristly fur on his bare arms and legs, as if they’re brushing up against him. But he’s blind as a pup, tentatively reaching out his hands and doing his best not to move too abruptly. 

A tiny tongue touches his knee, then his shin. He holds his breath, but nothing else comes.

* * *

Keith spends the days continuing as usual, but he finds his mind on those pups more often than not. He wonders if they’re hungry or cold or sick or vulnerable—to weather or sickness or predators or hunters. When he hears people on one of the trails, his first instinct is to warn them away from the area completely. 

Still, Keith manages to keep his calm. He takes soil samples, makes sure everything is moving along as it should, puts in an order for more supplies, tidies up the cabin. 

Despite the fact it’s been lived in before and has some wayward possessions—old equipment, discarded books, the occasional mess hidden underneath the stove or the couch—he already feels like it’s home. He fills up the kettle with a small dent on the spout and fries breakfast on the ancient frying pan, slips on his trusty hiking boots and hat he’d gotten marked off at REI, and soaks off the day with the metal tub and slips into bed with the many quilts. 

Keith is used to the silence—likes it, in fact. He’s lived almost everywhere, courtesy of foster homes, and his best moments were either in his dad’s cabin or during nature trips. Later, he’d taken up a gig as a volunteer fire-watcher out of curiosity and a desire to be alone for a bit, and fell in love with just _being,_ with no expectations but to take care of himself and the land. 

Still, he misses _some_ people. He’s gotten on a first name basis with some down at the corner store and café, and with his supervisor, Kolivan, but that’s it. It’s not like he’s left anyone behind, but it might have been nice to have known someone long enough to miss them.

* * *

On his day off, Keith readies himself to make the long drive to town to properly stock up for winter. It’s not a task he’s looking forward to, but a necessary one; muttered prayers and curses to the heavens won’t help if he runs out of gas halfway to town in the winter—a few incidents have taught him to _always_ load up on gas here, lest he spend the rest of the day walking for miles in hopes of finding a friendly neighbor with extra fuel. 

He makes sure he has his list and a packed lunch and locks up the cabin. 

It’s about a two hour drive, watching the land roll by with the occasional sign of wildlife and a few cows. He wants to watch a pair of men feed them, liking the rhythm of cutting the hay bales' twine apart with a knife and throwing chunks to the waiting cows. The men have plaid jackets and jeans and cowboy hats; they remind Keith of a past fling with callouses on his fingers and a devilish smile who could pick locks as easily as turning a key. 

He swallows, managing to wave back when one of the men catches sight of his truck and raises his hand in greeting, and drives on. 

Finally, he reaches the shop, where the storeowner’s restocking shelves. Keith hands her the list, and she yells at some assistants to help, turning to Keith with a grin. “Stocking up?” 

“You know it, Romelle,” he answers. “Got a lot of people lately?” 

“Oh, yes,” she says, flicking a braid over her shoulder. From what he knows, she’d left the city after her brother died, and that had been all she’d been willing to tell; Keith knows enough about hard pasts not to pry further. But she seems to have made a life here for herself, and that’s something he can easily admire. 

“You can tell the first-timers, though,” she continues. “I kept telling them to start preparing for winter—when the roads are filled with black ice, you should huddle inside with more than a few cans, but…” 

“I guess they’ll learn,” he says, and she rolls her eyes. 

“Maybe. Did I tell you about the summer folk who forgot to turn off the water in the winter?” 

She chatters about a couple who let their pipes freeze and came back to find the cabin absolutely flooded and all the money spent for repairs, then a few tourist stories and some local gossip. Keith learns that the community center’s having another event, that the local minister’s opening a food bank, that Hunk’s café has a new batch of preserves, that a few have seen bears digging through the trash, that the Alteas—an old family, he’s gathered—are holding a dinner and show at their inn to raise money for some folks who lost their home to a fire. 

In return, Keith exchanges tales of wayward hikers and a few animals he’s seen more of lately, though he doesn’t mention the coyotes; something in him likes to have that secret. 

“Winter’s coming, so you might want a companion,” Romelle says, weighing up some coffee. “The McClains have kittens; do you think you’ll want one?” 

Keith shakes his head. It’s tempting, but he’s never had a cat, much less a kitten. “Maybe a horse, one day,” he says, thinking of the ones he’s seen galloping in the open fields, sometimes with riders on their backs. 

Romelle shrugs. “Maybe talk to Allura about it; they’ve got stables around here.” 

“And an inn?” 

“They do trail rides and such, but they sell horses from time to time,” Romelle says. “But I think you have to wait some time.” 

“Fine by me,” Keith says. He has some money saved, but probably not enough, and he needs a place to keep the horse in question. “Do you have one?” 

“No, they seem to hate me,” she says cheerfully, packing up the groceries and smacking Keith’s hand away when he tries to help. “They all ride me into tree branches or try to throw me off. I’m better off with my two feet on the ground.” 

Keith knows her assistants will load the heavy stuff in his truck, so he slides Romelle a few bills for tips and tells her goodbye. She insists on helping him with the bags, and while they’re walking out to his truck, she says, “Careful out there. It’s supposed to be colder than it has in the past.” 

“I will,” he says, and playfully tips his hat.

* * *

Something in him makes him want to go to the dinner and the show at the inn, maybe pre-cabin fever. He throws on his cleanest shirt and most form-fitting jeans and even makes an attempt to comb his hair. 

The show’s about an old town legend of a ghost, wandering the land to find her lost lover, and Keith sees even the cowboys tearing up into their napkins. The music’s wailing and lonely and howling like blizzard winds, and whoever’s up on stage knows what they’re doing, despite a man in a mustache whispering stage directions and striking poses, of all things. 

When the lights go up, there’s thunderous applause, and the band strikes up a tune, one with clapping and shouted directions and Keith finds himself pulled into the fray. Romelle is there, laughing and twirling in a pair of silver-studded jeans, and she eventually waltzes off with Hunk, who blushes so hot that his cheeks match the wine in the many goblets everyone seems to be drinking. 

Outside, there’s a crack of thunder, then a sudden, rhythmic thumping on the roof. The lights flicker off, just for a few minutes at the most, and Keith expects gasps or maybe even a child crying—but everyone just laughs. 

“Show must go on!” the mustached man calls out cheerfully, and another round of dance music begins. 

“Maybe I should go,” Keith says, glancing outdoors, where rain’s already pouring in sheets. 

“No, stay a little longer,” Romelle pleads. “Maybe it’ll clear up in a bit, and the dessert table hasn’t been set up yet! Hunk made a lot of it, so it’s bound to be good.” 

Keith has to smile at her enthusiasm. “Okay, just for the food.” 

Romelle grins, pulling him onto the dance floor, and with a beat of claps and shouted directions, he starts getting the hang of it, only stepping on a few feet a few times. Some are even worse than he is, but in the crowd, everyone just chuckles, gets to their feet, and keeps going. He’s whirled around by Allura, ducked playfully by Hunk, and shoved in the arms of many of a giggling young lady, with whom he dances with long enough to be polite but steps away immediately when it’s time to switch partners. 

Finally, everyone breaks for desserts, and Keith eats more than he thought he would, including three helpings of Hunk’s salted honey pie—sweet in all the right places, with a buttery crust. The band’s taking a break, so he can still hear the rain still going strong, thundering on the roof and windows. 

“The roads are going to be terrible,” Romelle says with a grimace. “Keith, your truck won’t make it out; stay with me.”

“I can’t—” 

“Seriously, it’s all mud and slush out there,” Hunk says, nudging him with a fork. “Your truck will stall in the middle of the wilderness, and you don’t want that, do you?” 

Keith thinks of the walk, even on the best of days, and shudders. “You’re right,” he admits. “But I can always stay at the inn—”

“ _Keith_ ,” Romelle insists. “Stay.” 

He does. Romelle puts him up in a spare room with a lot of quilts that smell a bit perfumed but bearable. He hears, once, Hunk and Romelle giggling in the room down the hall, and rolls over, trying not to let jealousy—and yes, maybe a little bit of loneliness—rise in his chest.

* * *

Keith drives back once the roads are clear, after joining Romelle and Hunk for lunch at the cafe, which gives them hot chocolate on the house. He sees grass and alfalfa and flowers bloom, along with a litter of bunnies hidden in one of the haystacks, smaller than the palm of his hand. 

When he goes back to the den, he has to smile at the busy activity of low whines and huffs and squirming bodies. He’s susceptible to cute animals like most of the population, and for most of the spring, whistles while he works. 

Later, Keith pays a visit to Allura, who gladly shows him some of the newest foals, and admires a red roan one with a black mane, stumbling after its mother. He hears from Romelle about cows and sheep being born, with a few pictures she’s gathered from social media—and hushed stories about bodies being found in the fields. The blame’s quick and rabid, and Keith’s glad more than ever that he’s kept the coyotes a secret from the locals. 

He’d studied biology and what he needed to for his degree, even wrote a senior thesis on coyotes, how eliminating them actually made prey populations rise instead of the other way around. It had been during Arizona’s Predator Hunt Extreme, and his anger made his fingers fly hot and fast over the keyboard. Coyotes, he wrote, mate for life, and don’t always go after large domestic stock—fruits and cacti and rats, the latter important to farmers. 

Wolves, he wrote, were more likely to prey upon larger animals, less adaptable, and protected under the Endangered Species Act. Not to say he disliked wolves, of course—but he was always rooting for the underdog. (Pun not intended.) 

Coyotes have courting rituals, too: grooming and chasing and playing, like cats—and families, not nuclear ones. And population control—arsenic traps and shooting and gas canisters—it killed him to watch videos and read articles and interviews, but he did, and went over his word count besides. His advisor, Dr. Ulaz, had despaired—slashing his words with red ink and occasionally muttering under his breath while he read new pages—but later said, if nothing else, the research was thorough. 

He heard enough about coyotes in his work—they were rodents and had fleas and needed to be cut down. But he found more to admire—smallness and scrappiness and survival packed in their pointed ears and skinny body. They were usually friendlier than commonly thought, too, and he more than once saw one trot calmly down the street or into a sewer without attacking anyone. (Of course, people were still advised to leave their pets indoors and not engage the coyote—common sense and all.) 

Keith hasn’t spent much time around ranchers and farmers, but knows that coyotes are public enemy number one for them. So he keeps his mouth shut out here, and tends to his own business.

* * *

Keith’s checking the trails again when _he_ appears. 

The man doesn't look like a lost hiker. No backpack. No hat. No water bottle, even in the desert. His lips aren't even chapped. 

His hair's longer than Keith's, dark and tangled past his shoulders. There's stubble on his face, a dark pink slash across his nose, and a dark green jacket, one sleeve bulkier than the other. His skin’s pale as newly fallen snow, with grayish bags and hollowed cheeks, but his eyes—dark brown—are oddly bright and focused. 

Keith’s first thought is, _He could be a serial killer._

"Who are you?" Keith asks, hand inching towards the pistol on his belt. 

The man raises his hands, almost playfully. "I come in peace." 

"That doesn't answer my question," Keith says. 

"Shiro." 

"Shiro," he repeats, the name strange on his tongue. "You're trespassing." 

"Trespassing." The man tilts his head. "Who says?" 

"My U.S. government credentials. Did you wander off the trail?" 

“No.”

“Then I suggest you leave,” Keith says. 

Shiro continues smiling without a word. 

_He’s crazy,_ Keith thinks. Or on drugs. He curses himself for not checking the news for a while; this guy could be an escaped criminal, on a most wanted list. But he has no weapon; Keith can see that much. His shirt, an almost see-through white tank top, shows nothing but skin underneath, and his gray pants are loose in a way sweatpants are, with no suspicious bulges. (He tries to move away from the obvious one.) The jacket’s off one shoulder, anyway, and covering the right arm—

“Curious?” Shiro asks, lifting the arm. His fingers gleam in the sunlight like—

Metal. He’s never seen—

“I’d be too,” Shiro continues. His voice is low, almost soothing. “It’s harmless, though. Would you like to touch it?” 

Almost as if his hand has a mind of its own, Keith does, placing his palm flat above the wrist. It’s strangely cool to the touch, and he can see the intricacies up close, of the bends of the fingers and slight hills of the knuckles.

“It’s nice,” he says at last. 

“Thank you.” Shiro doesn’t move his arm, but Keith quickly takes his hand off, face flushed. “You’re the new wildlife manager, I take it.”

“I am,” Keith says cautiously. “I don’t think we’ve met, though.” 

“Officially.” There’s the pointed smile again. “It’s a pleasure. You’ve been here for less than a year, I think?”

“Yes. How long have you been here?” 

“A long time,” Shiro says, without elaboration. He looks at Keith like he knows him, and Keith can’t tell if he’s looking at him like he’s a friend or an enemy. His gaze is penetrating, as if they’re stripping Keith out of his clothes in the middle of the field. 

“Right,” Keith says slowly. “Well…nice to meet you.” 

Shiro reaches up and tips an imaginary hat. “Likewise,” he says, and disappears into the tall grass without another word.

* * *

Keith tries to put the encounter out of his mind. He’s met teenagers with more alcohol in their body than sense, people trying to smuggle fireworks into the woods on the Fourth of July, macho “wilderness men” attempting to hunt with a crossbow, the occasional homeless person who gave up on civilization a long time ago. And when he was in the city—well. He had stories. 

But this one is different, somehow. He can’t help but think about Shiro, the way he tilted his head and gazed at Keith like staring down the barrel of a weapon, finger hovered, unsure to shoot. 

Even so, he’d wanted to follow that man into the wild, no matter where it took him—

That thought unsettles him the most. He won’t be one of those idiots who lets their libido do the thinking. It’s because of the isolation or the long winter or the long years of drought, that’s all. He needs to focus.

* * *

The next time Keith visits the den, his heart breaks wide open. There’s only a single pup there, small and midnight blue, looking at him steadily with trusting eyes and a low whine as Keith creeps closer. 

He knows what’s happened: a stray gas canister nearby, drag marks in the dirt, and miraculously—a survivor. 

Its ears are pointed and as small as his thumb, eyes milky blue and lined with black, claws thin and black and tipped with white, fur that is moving with brown flecks that Keith knows are fleas.

 _This is not your job,_ he tells himself, but that doesn’t stop him from making a note to check up on the pup in the coming days. Just in case.

* * *

Romelle invites him out the next time he stops by, but Keith politely turns her down. 

“Got some work to do,” he says, wondering why it sounds like a lie. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right,” she replies, as a black cat comes out. It slinks around Romelle’s legs, rubbing its cheeks and purring, and Keith tilts his head at it curiously. 

“One of the McClain’s,” she says. “I told myself no, but this one was dead set on me. You can pet her; she’s real friendly.”

But when Keith bends down and stretches out a tentative hand, the cat bolts, tail in a puff, so quickly that he can hear her claws scratching the wooden floorboards. 

“She’s never done that with people!” Romelle says in dismay. “Only with dogs and—I’m sorry, Keith.” 

Keith tries for a smile. “It’s all right; she must smell some kind of animal on me.” He wonders if the cat smelled coyote, hopes Romelle doesn’t catch on.

* * *

When he gets back home, the coyote pup is waiting by the walkway to his cabin, whining, and Keith sighs. 

“You know you’re not supposed to be here,” he tells it. 

The pup only stares up at him, eyes bright and curious. 

“No.” Keith wonders if he’s made a mistake, interacting with it. He should take the pup to a wildlife rehab center or try to drive it away; he won’t be like the tourists who leave chips out for the squirrels or toss bits of sandwiches to the birds. “’Git.” 

The pup only stares at him. It’s thin, Keith notices, and he wonders if it doesn’t know how to hunt or scavenge. It looks less than a month, so not weaned—but that could be its size. It could be a runt. This is not his job. But it looks hungry. And if he doesn’t do something, if the pup hasn’t been able to eat…

“One night,” Keith tells it, opening the door. 

It ignores him, heading for the flannel jacket Keith tossed on the floor and beginning to paw at it. Keith hopes that it’s not going to piss on it—he expects it, but doesn’t like it—when the pup steps into the middle and immediately curls into a ball. 

“Damn it,” he mutters to himself, but closes the door behind him.

* * *

Keith calls the rehab center, only to be told it’s full right now, it’s been an unusually busy spring, can he take it down to the one half a day’s drive away? 

He ends up buying baby bottles and special formula off the internet, and feeds the pup when it’s on its stomach, like they do with their mothers. He also has to burp it, like a human baby, and it takes a few trial runs of the backwash getting into his hair or the coyote stubbornly holding it in before it goes like clockwork. 

Before he leaves, Keith locks the cabin securely, knowing he now has something to protect besides his belongings. He’s afraid to shut the pup in the bathroom, for fear of it drowning in the toilet—he’s seen squirrels and rats go for the nice open drinking water and take an unpredicted swim—so he leaves it to roam in the open cabin, trying to put everything chewable or dangerous away. 

The pup isn’t housetrained, of course, so there’s puddles and more on the floor greeting him when he returns, but Keith can’t get mad about it. He’d let the pup out while he’s away, but he’s worried about hunters or others scaring it off. Even this small, it would be shot if it wandered too close to a house or a ranch. 

So he guards the pup and bottle-feeds it, stopping a little after it chews a big hole through one of the rubber nipples and swallows it. After watching it for a few fitful days, despite knowing coyotes’ digestive systems were like goats’, Keith begins to expand to soft foods, sometimes even chewing (cooked) meat himself and leaving it in a bowl. 

He doesn’t name it, but it comes when Keith whistles and sleeps in the same shirt by the door. Keith’s careful not to treat it like a pet, but tries to set boundaries on where it can do its business after too many casualties. It’s smart, too, learning to beg when Keith sits down for a meal or knowing a few words, like _food_ and _no._

Romelle’s cat still runs off when he comes by, but other than that, no one’s treating him any differently. They haven’t discovered anything, this wildlife manager hiding a coyote in his cabin. Keith’s dad would laugh, he’s sure.

* * *

There’s a knock, and Keith shuts off the kettle with an inquisitive grunt and throws a blanket over the sleeping pup on his bed, shutting the bedroom door behind him. It must be a lost hiker or someone delivering supplies, and the sooner they leave, the sooner he can get to breakfast—

“Hello there,” Shiro says. He seems—calmer, and dressed in jeans and a dark green flannel, both arms covered this time. His hair’s still loose around his shoulders, but it’s brushed smoothly back, silky and shiny in the sunlight. 

“Hello,” Keith responds, cautiously.

“Look,” Shiro says. “We probably got off on the wrong foot, so…” He holds out something wrapped in aluminum foil, and when Keith carefully takes and unwraps it, dark red berries bold against golden pastry. “Chokecherries. People make wine out of it here, but they’re delicious in a tart.” 

“I’ve never had them,” Keith says. 

“They’re tart,” Shiro says. “And poisonous.” 

Keith glances down at the tart, mouth twisting. 

“Not cooked.” There’s a sheepish smile on Shiro’s lips. “I wouldn’t poison our local government official.” He reaches over and pinches a piece off, red berry juice staining finger and thumb, and pops it into his mouth. Fingertips come away with a slick sheen, long and calloused and—

Keith watches, and quickly realizes that his mouth’s hanging open, dangerously close to a drool. “Um. Thanks,” he manages, pulling the tart closer to his chest. “Very neighborly of you. It looks good.” 

Speaking of neighborly… “Do you want something? Coffee or…?” 

He’s not sure why he asks, but it’s too late to take it back, anyway. 

Shiro’s voice is cautious. “If you like.” 

“Yes,” Keith says, ducking his chin. He sits the tart down on the kitchen table and turns to the coffee machine, pouring water in as Shiro shuffles forward and takes a seat. “How do you like it?” 

“Hot,” Shiro replies. 

It takes almost a second for Keith to get it, then snort. “Okay. Not particular, then.” 

“I wouldn’t say that. Just not coffee. When you have to get up early, it doesn’t matter as long as you have it.” 

“I know the feeling. How early?” 

“Oh, three, four AM. To milk the goats. Feed the sheep.” 

“You’re a rancher?” 

“Not quite. It’s something I just started up.” 

Keith finishes the coffee and pours it into a mug, handing it to Shiro before getting out two forks and a knife better suited to cutting fruit. “How long have you been here?” 

Shiro shrugs. “Long enough. It’s quiet out here. I like it.” 

They share the tart for breakfast, and Shiro talks about coming up here, about mixing concrete in a bucket and hauling Styrofoam to insulate his cabin—logs, like Lincoln’s—then the hours of setting irrigation pipes to hydrate the fields and more hammering together a fence, about building his home from a ragged foundation to something livable. 

Keith listens, fascinated. He lived in the wilderness, sure, but not like this—survival from day to day, every moment dependent on work. And as much as Shiro talks, Keith recognizes the chatter for what it is—distraction. No mention of family, friends, or a life before all of this. 

That’s fine with him; he doesn’t want to share much himself. So he does the same, trading stories he’s shared before. Their first encounter slips away with each minute they spend together, and Keith’s almost ashamed of his past thoughts, his wild imagination. Shiro wasn’t some wildman or criminal; he was just a rancher—sort of—who probably had a few libertarian ideas about the land. 

Finally, he realizes the time.

“Oh, shit,” Keith says. “I have to go.” 

“Do you?” 

The coffee and sugar from the tart’s buzzing in his brain, his chest. “Yes,” he says. 

“Shame,” Shiro sighs, with a soft smile. “It was nice talking to you.” 

“You too,” Keith says, pushing back his chair. “Thank you for the tart; it was delicious. I have to find something else to pay you back for introducing me to that.” 

Shiro laughs. “No need. But may we run into each other again.”

* * *

They do. 

Shiro invites him to his ranch—“not a ranch, Keith”—and they spend long, lazy afternoons walking around or doing chores. Shiro says it isn’t right to make guests work, that it’s a hanging crime here, but Keith protests; he finds farmwork fascinating and never got a chance to do it until now. It was rewarding—but Keith couldn’t lie that some of his fascination lay with Shiro’s muscles working underneath his shirt, the way he wiped his forearm across his forehead, how his hands expertly cut through twine and doled out hay for the animals. 

Shiro has a horse, too, and when he rides through the fields with his thighs in a tight grip, Keith considers that he may have a cowboy fantasy. (“Not a cowboy.” “You have a lasso.” “Still not a cowboy.”) He teaches Keith how to ride Western-style, reins wrapped around one hand, to trot and to canter and to gallop, to make himself steady and calm so the horse trusts him. 

“It’s mutual,” Shiro says, the next time Atlas tests him with a short buck. “But she’s also trying to see what she can get away with.” 

“I don’t want to be mean,” Keith says, holding firm onto the saddle horn. 

“You’re not going to,” Shiro says, standing off to the side of the pasture. It’s amazing how much he trusts Keith not to gallop away with his horse. “Just be firm.” 

Keith hesitates, just as Atlas tosses her head impatiently. “I just know what it’s like to be pushed.” 

“Well, horses can be as…determined as you, I think,” Shiro says dryly, walking over to pay Atlas on her flank. “My first horse—you know what she did? She fought every command; she’d been abused, I think, by her last owner, but I didn’t give up on her.” A soft grin overtakes his face. “She ended up being the sweetest horse I’ve ever known.” 

“What happened?”

The smile drops from his face. “Accident. It…really hurt her, and she broke her leg.”

“I’m so sorry,” Keith whispers. 

“I’ve never stopped blaming myself,” Shiro admits. “It took me a while to get another horse. Atlas—she was Allura’s, but I was there at her birth. She struggled, too; it was rough all around—but I think caring for her helped me feel whole again, you know?”

Keith nods. He knows a little more about that than Shiro thinks. “It’s nice, being able to take care of something instead of the other way around.” 

In response, Shiro leans over, places his hand on Keith’s knee. Even through the denim, the heat goes to his neck, to his thigh, and he subtly twitches the reins, allowing Atlas to move away so he can hide his face.

* * *

With each day, Keith learns how to ride, takes care of his quickly-growing coyote, and keeps both secrets close to his chest. He still talks to Romelle, even goes to another event at Allura’s inn, but otherwise slips in and out of his daily routine with a lighthearted clench in his chest. 

Kolivan checks up on him now and then, and Keith can tell that he’s surprised by the newfound spring in his step.

“It seems this place has grown on you in such a short time,” he comments. 

“I guess,” Keith says. “It’s—really nice out here.” 

He can see Kolivan raising an eyebrow, even over the phone. “Be careful, Keith. Your job is to be independent.” 

“I’m doing my job,” Keith says, a bit sharply. “Haven’t I gotten my reports and samples in on time?” 

“Of course. But you’re still young, and it’s natural to want to put down roots after being adrift for so long.” 

“It’s nothing like that.” 

“Nevertheless, be on guard. We’re getting reports on some bounty hunts beginning—the coyotes, for one. It’s still spring, so it’s ample time for them,” Kolivan warns. 

“Got it,” Keith says with a heavy sigh. 

“It’s legal, to a certain extent. But you might get some—overzealous ones. Be careful.” 

Keith thinks of the growing pup in his cabin. “I am.”

* * *

It’s a few weeks before he sees Shiro again—it’s the hunters, the daily work, and a bear poacher. That one had been more excitement than Keith had in weeks, having to later radio in backup to take the guy away and typing up all he could recall for a report—he wasn’t sure if he was going to have to testify down the road, but wanted everything on paper in case. 

Regris was part of the team, someone Keith remembers fondly. They’d been partners in southern Appalachia, keeping an eye on mountain lions and different sorts of insects; Regris had been close to obsessed with moths. 

“They get a bad rep, like your coyotes,” Regris had told him when Keith caught him again thumbing through a manual for fun. “They’re not as pretty as butterflies.” 

Happy to see a familiar face, Keith treats Regris to dinner at Hunk’s, making sure the coyote is stowed away safe with an elk heart someone had offered to him while he was in town—extra meat, which Keith was grateful for, being down to his last government rations. 

Hunk keeps sneaking them glances, and so do some of the patrons; he suspects the gossip train’s fully chugging along and he’ll hear something from Romelle next time he stops by. 

“Kolivan’s been saying you might stay longer,” Regris mentions during a serving of blueberry crumble, generously topped with brown sugar and a dollop of freshly-whipped cream. 

“Yeah, I’ve grown to like it out here.” 

“It looks so lonely.” 

“It’s really not,” Keith says. 

“Too bad,” Regris replies, stepping closer. “That was my opener.” 

He’s more tanned, with jeans form-fitting enough to turn heads and a dark blue vest that brings out the gleam in his eyes. His hair’s coiled in a thick braid that swings just above his waist, and the way he smiles is enough to melt frost off the windows during any blizzard. And of course, Keith remembers his touch, too, hands sliding over his waist and down his hips, confident but gentle. He’d been Keith’s first—to this day, he’s not quite sure if he was Regris’s—so the memory held something special for him, so much that he’d been hesitant to accept the post up here. 

But things have changed, and Keith says quietly, “I’m sorry.” 

“Oh.” Regris ducks his head, clearly embarrassed. “Do you have a fellow?”

Shiro’s face comes to mind, and Keith pushes it away. They’re not—they barely know each other—but—

“Something like that,” he ends up saying.

* * *

The next time he goes to visit Shiro, there’s a familiar red horse in the field. 

Keith pulls his truck up, startled, as Shiro waves to him from the porch. “Feel like riding for real?”

He jumps out of his seat and heads over to the fence, wordlessly holding his hand out. The horse trots over, immediately mouthing at his fingers in search of food, and when he looks up, Shiro’s grinning at him. 

“She’s not for you,” Shiro says, though Keith catches a mischievous twinkling in his eyes. 

“She’s beautiful,” Keith says, reaching up to stroke her neck. “What’s her name?”

“That’s up to you.” 

Keith tilts his head. “I thought you said she wasn’t for me.” 

“She’s not,” Shiro replies. 

Of course, he doesn’t believe him, but doesn’t push it. “Let’s ride, then,” he says. 

He’s much better at keeping his seat, reins in a light grip and shoulders relaxed. Atlas trots beside him, Shiro occasionally pointing at various sights. It’s really a beautiful country, Keith thinks, especially during the spring, with lilacs blooming and young animals roaming the plains. Sometimes, they catch sights of deer leaping away into the grass or bison placidly plodding along—sights Keith wishes he had a camera to capture, but never thought to bring. 

That’s all right, though, because he’s with Shiro, who looks even more handsome today, with his honest-to-god cowboy hat and faded jeans. He has a belt wrapped tightly around his waist, buckle gleaming in the sunlight, but unlike with most of the people he’s seen, it doesn’t look silly; it seems to frame the jut of his hips and trim stomach. 

Shiro’s gone slightly ahead, Atlas swishing her tail, and he looks—really good in the sunlight, framing his broad shoulders. Keith flushes at his thoughts, and as if his horse can sense it, she gives a short snort. 

“Yeah, I know,” he mutters. 

“What is it?” Shiro calls back. 

Keith hopes the red on his face can be explained by the sun. “Do you want to race back?” 

In answer, Shiro kicks his heels, and Atlas speeds off. 

Laughing, Keith follows. His horse is _fast,_ and he ends up clutching for dear life and trying to remember his reins and not let his heels bounce too much against the horse’s sides. The wind whips across his face, hair blowing into his eyes, and he sees Shiro’s hat dangling by its leather cord around his neck. They whoop in the sunshine, the land around them so empty that it hardly disturbs a thing, dust kicking up in flurries. 

There’s a fence nearing in the horizon, and Keith pulls back the reins gently, but his horse keeps going. Behind him, Shiro shouts in alarm, and Keith grips hard onto the saddle horn and the reins as the railing grows closer and closer—

And she sails over it as easily as anything. 

Keith laughs, a bit breathlessly, as she canters in a wide circle before coming to a halt, snorting as if to say, _Wasn’t that fun?_

“Keith!” Shiro’s running towards him, hat still hanging from his neck. “Are you all right?” 

“I’m fine,” Keith calls, and slips out of the saddle when his horse bends down to nibble on a patch of grass. 

“God, Keith, you could have—I’m sorry—” 

“Don’t worry about it.” Keith winces slightly, but it’s because he’s saddle-sore, not hurt. “It was fun.” 

Shiro stares at him for a moment, then laughs.

They water and rub down the horses before turning them loose in the pasture. Atlas nuzzles the other horse affectionately as Shiro leads Keith back into the cabin. The sun’s beginning to set, casting long shadows, and with a start, Keith realizes how long he’s been here. 

“Let me fix you dinner,” Shiro says. “My cooking isn’t amazing, but I’ve survived this long.” 

“That sounds great, Shiro, but I have to go,” Keith says reluctantly. “It’s, uh, getting late.” 

“If it’s the drive that’s worrying you, you can stay here. I have—well, not a spare room, but a decent enough bed.” 

Keith flushes again; it’s getting to be a record. “I can’t—” 

“I’ve slept on the couch many times. I insist.” 

“I can’t,” he repeats. He wishes he could tell Shiro about the coyote, but still doesn’t dare—Shiro’s…well, practically a rancher, after all, and has lived here long enough to potentially see them as enemies. “I have to send data to my boss; I’ve been putting it off.” 

Shiro looks disappointed, but doesn’t push. “Okay. Let me at least make you some coffee.”

Keith accepts, and has to pull himself away when he reaches the bottom of the mug. Shiro watches him go with a look Keith can’t quite read, hanging in the doorway, and Keith lamely waves goodbye before hitting the gas.

* * *

The coyote’s been good at hanging inside the cabin, but it’s still a wild animal and belongs outdoors. Keith’s taken it for “walks”—by which he means he wanders in a secluded enough spot so the coyote can follow him without being seen by passerby—and the coyote’s curious enough to sniff around the sagebrush and occasionally hunt small rodents and bring back “gifts” or bones to chew on. 

His ears are growing longer, more pointed at the tips with darker fur showing up, and his tail becoming less stringy. He no longer stumbles, and his teeth are no longer those of a pup’s; Keith’s been bitten—by accident—and keeps a pair of sturdy leather gloves. Luckily, the coyote’s perfectly healthy; he doesn’t know what will happen if he’ll ever need to give medicine—or, hopefully not, drive him to a wildlife vet. 

Still, Keith doesn’t know if the coyote would be able to survive out in the wild. And with the hunters still around—

He’s seen posters around town advertising up to a $1,000 reward for a bagged coyote, and gunshots ring out when he does his rounds. There’s a potential for fraud, he knows, of turning in coyotes not from the area, so there’s pictures of proof-of-kill, some on social media, which he quickly scrolls past and tries not to see. 

And even those with no experience—well, that’s a decent amount of money, enough for some to contribute to the mortgage or the upkeep of running a ranch. Keith worries, the bigger the coyote gets, especially when it takes to roaming around. Sometimes, it doesn’t come back during the night, and every time that happens, Keith gets an anxious knot in his stomach that loosens only when he sees a wagging tail on his porch, hoping for a taste of breakfast.

* * *

“ _How_ old?” 

Keith raises his eyebrows. “Shiro. Does age really matter out here? I’ve seen kids drive tractors.” 

Shiro blushes, focusing again on feeding the sheep. They’d spent the morning chasing one down who’d somehow gotten its head stuck between two fence posts; once it had been freed, it had immediately stuck its head back in, and Shiro put his hands close together prayerfully while Keith laughed hysterically enough to scare off a few stragglers. 

“Fair enough. Most places…well, I couldn’t walk down the street with my boyfriends without raising eyebrows.” 

“Boyfriends?” Keith teases. “Heartbreaker much?” 

“It’s not like that,” Shiro protests, nudging him. “I, uh, did have a fiancé, but it was—it wasn’t like that.” 

“Oh.” Keith wonders what kind of idiot would abandon Shiro. “I’m sorry.” 

Shiro shrugs. “It’s not your fault. Really anybody’s.” 

Keith wonders if that’s why Shiro ended up here. It wouldn’t be the first time; hell, he’s known fellow wildlife experts who jumpstarted their careers to cool their heads and be alone after a particularly nasty break-up. “Still.” 

Shiro shrugs again. “What about you? Heartbreaker or heartbreakee?” 

“Neither,” Keith says. “I think I’ve only had one…boyfriend, and that’s it.” The fact that he’s saying _I think_ doesn’t exactly clear things up for himself, either. 

“Oh.” Shiro looks away before saying, “That guy in town—I don’t mean to pry, but I heard…” 

“Ancient history,” Keith immediately says. 

He’s pleased to see Shiro smile.

* * *

Regris would kiss Keith on his stomach and work his way up to his neck, murmuring sweet nothings along the way. His hands would be steady, and some nights, he’d ride Keith, hair unbound and streaming just over his hips. He was always careful about touch, and from stories he’d let slip, Keith gathered his home life hadn’t been a happy one. A fellow orphan, or as good as, Keith sometimes thought sardonically. 

But now, his dreams are filled with Shiro. Shiro would be gentlemanly, he thinks, but he thinks of Shiro deftly handling him, expertly corralling and stroking him, eroding Keith’s patience like a slow and steady tide. 

He feels slightly guilty for letting his thoughts wander like this, especially with Shiro right there. Shiro would describe various things for him, how to tie a line or feed the sheep, and Keith would cherish the cadence of his voice, trying to memorize it like pressing a flower between the pages of a book.

Keith’s fallen for people who’ve been kind to him before, who showed him basic decency in times where there was little. Now, he considers himself less naive, to guard his heart, to keep people at an arm’s reach, because you never knew when they could leave you.

* * *

It’s a dusty day, and Keith’s wiping his forehead for the longest time before he decides to call it. The temperature’s unusually hot, and no one seems to be out—not that he can blame them. The cabin’s not air-conditioned, but some shelter would be nice. 

He ends up drawing an early bath in hopes the water will cool him down. It’s too hot to eat, so he spends meal time pumping water and shucking off his clothes to sink into the metal tub, sighing at the cool sensation against his skin. His hair’s unbound, streaming down his shoulders in a mess of black; he makes a mental note to cut it or find something to tie it back during the day. 

He lays his head back, closing his eyes, and is in the process of dozing off when he hears a series of frantic knocks, head whipping up when the door bursts open. 

Shiro’s standing in the doorway, hand covering his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you weren’t answering and I thought—well—” He stutters, stumbling backwards and nearly tripping over the threshold. 

Keith can’t help but laugh. “Shiro, it’s fine.” 

“I’m so sorry—” 

“Shiro.” 

“Really, I, uh—” 

With an unexpected boldness, he asks, “Shiro. Do you want to join me?” 

Shiro’s hand falls away, but he’s still looking at the ground, a blush across his nose and cheeks. “Will it fit me?” 

“See for yourself.” 

As if in a trance, Shiro strides forward, boots making soft thumps against the floor, then bends over and rests his hand on the edge of the metal tub. Keith slowly lifts his hand out of the water, strokes over his knuckles. 

And in one slow motion, with no effort, Shiro then lifts Keith out of the metal tub, water streaming on the floor. Keith clutches at him when Shiro kisses him, winding his arms around his shoulders, soaking through the thin fabric of Shiro’s shirt. Beneath him, Shiro groans, fingers winding into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. “Keith,” he murmurs. “Bed?” 

“Here,” Keith demands, and pulls him down, laying right on the floorboards. Shiro curses under his breath and kisses him again, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt and practically tearing it off, tossing it to the ground. Keith’s hands roam upward to touch him, exploring over scars and sun-warmed skin, Shiro’s own hands returning the favor. 

The belt buckle clinks, and Keith impatiently tugs at it, then the button of Shiro’s jeans, until they’re both naked as the day they were born. Bare limbs tangle, Shiro breathing against his neck, Keith pulling him closer, and the heat feels very far away.

* * *

When Keith comes to, he hears the sizzle of the stove and the smell of bacon and eggs. 

It makes his stomach rumble, and he sits up, blanket sliding from his chest. He doesn’t remember getting to his bedroom, and it touches him that Shiro brought him here, cleaned him up, and covered him with the warmest quilt. He stretches, cracking his spine, before grabbing the nearest shirt and a pair of sleeping pants. 

Shiro’s at the stove, briskly whisking something in the pan and flipping over thick slabs of dark pink, marbled with fat.

“Careful," Keith says. "I get one shipment per month." 

"Rationing," Shiro says without turning around. "I know about that." 

Keith does, too. Cowboy stew. Pancakes. Mayonnaise or peanut butter sandwiches. Potatoes. Rice. Counting each can, each jar. He's dreamed of running out too many times to count, and imagines stacks and stacks of food in the pantry, enough to outlast a siege. 

But he doesn't volunteer any of that. “I like my eggs scrambled,” he says. "Could do with hash browns mixed in, but..." 

“Next time,” Shiro promises. 

Keith ends up sitting at his kitchen table, knees up to his chest, as Shiro finishes, coming towards him with a plate and a fork stacked neatly on top. Delicately, he cuts part of the egg with the edge of the fork and spears it, lifting it to Keith's lips. 

He eats, allowing Shiro to feed him one morsel at a time. Shiro was right; his cooking was decent, if a bit greasy, and when the plate’s clean, has a fair amount of sheen on his lips. 

“Aren’t you hungry?” he asks. “You didn’t fix a plate for yourself.” 

Instead of answering, Shiro puts the plate down on the table, hand moving towards the innermost part of Keith’s thigh. “Come here,” he says. 

Keith does.

* * *

The coyote’s still out; Keith tries to put it out of his mind as he slips in beside Shiro underneath the covers. Shiro sleepily winds one arm around his waist and pulls him in, nuzzling into his neck, and they fall asleep like that, tangled in the dark.

* * *

He’s awoken to a sharp yell, and Keith’s heart seizes in his chest when he notices the door’s wide open and Shiro’s gone. 

Without bothering to pull on shoes or a jacket, he races outside, where Shiro’s standing stock still, eyes wide in shock at the coyote on the porch growling lowly at the intruder—and worse—hand going to his belt.

“No!” Keith warns. “Shiro, _no._ ”

“Keith,” Shiro says calmly. “Go back inside—” 

“No! Leave him alone. I mean it!” 

Shiro stares at him as if he’s crazy, hand hovering. “Keith…” 

“Please.” 

Something in his voice must convince Shiro, because his hand drops to his jean-clad thigh, loose and boneless, and Keith barely has time to sigh in relief when the coyote steps towards Shiro, ears slightly flattening against its head.

“No,” Keith warns. “It’s okay.” 

The coyote now looks at Keith, eyes narrowed. 

“No,” he repeats, more firmly. “Leave it.” 

Shiro’s still frozen in place, and Keith tries not to look at him when he steps forward. “Come on, buddy, leave him alone,” he coos. “It’s okay.” 

For one, long moment, the coyote only stares—then flicks its tail and sits down. 

Keith nearly collapses. “Good boy,” he manages. “Good boy.” 

“Keith…” Shiro says slowly. “What…” 

“Please leave him alone,” he begs. “Shiro, please—” 

“What the hell,” Shiro breathes. He’s still looking at the coyote—not in the eyes, at least—but clearly still shaken up. His breath's coming out as harsh, short pants, fists clenched slightly at his sides. “Keith…” 

“Leave him alone,” Keith repeats. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but don’t hurt him.” 

There’s a brief moment of silence, then, “Can I get to my truck, please?” 

“Yes, but Shiro, don’t tell anyone—” 

He doesn’t know whether Shiro heard; the slam of the truck door is loud enough for the coyote to startle, and it peels away in a metal-grinding screech, away from the cabin.

* * *

A few days pass, and no sign of Shiro. The coyote still trots freely, unhurt, but nervousness is gnawing Keith’s stomach like a bug. He wonders if Shiro’s told, if the town thinks he’s crazy—or worse, decides to take matters into their own hands. 

Reluctantly, he heads to town on the pretext of restocking, but gets no confrontation or even a whisper of gossip. Romelle serves him as usual, chattering about this and that, before Keith cuts her off. 

“Have you seen Shiro around here lately?” 

“Who?” 

“Shiro,” he repeats, remembering he’s never talked about him to Romelle; of course she’d be confused. “You know, kind of a rancher, has a white horse, metal arm.” 

Romelle frowns. 

“Keith,” she says. “There is no Shiro.” 

“What are you talking about?” It’s not a hallucination, is it? Or a—no, he can’t be that unlucky. 

“Keith, the guy’s familiar, but I think you misheard his name. It’s Kuron, not Shiro. Did you—” 

“Wait,” Keith says slowly. “Kuron’s his name?” 

“Yes, Kuron—something. Last name is Swedish, I think. He’s not too friendly, doesn’t really visit town much except for some supplies—how do you know him?” 

“I…” he stutters, and puts a few bills on the counter before hastily gathering up his things. “I don’t know. I’ll talk to you later.” 

Ignoring her concerned calls, Keith flees.

* * *

“Shiro” brings up profiles of various men in Japan and anime characters, and Keith resists the urge to slam his head against the desk. How could he be so stupid? How did he not know—really anything about this guy? Even his last name—and it looks like his first wasn’t the truth, either. 

It’s like “Kuron” is a ghost, outside a few cursory posts that are mostly of his ranch and his horse. He doesn’t appear on any of the town event photos or as a committee member or anything. Keith even checks social media, searching for any mentions of him. 

One post gives him pause—and a sick feeling. A picture of a coyote, lying at someone’s feet, unmistakably dead by some local rancher. 

And “Kuron” is tagged.

* * *

Fuck, that was stupid. Keith curses himself up and down, trying to figure out what to do. Take the coyote and flee? Put it in a sanctuary? Will it cooperate in the car? Tranquilizers will take longer to arrive; he doesn’t have enough. And what will Kolivan say, when he finds out? What about his job? And—

He remembers Shiro’s smile, his laugh, his touch. Those hands had looked into coyotes’ eyes and pulled the trigger, ready and probably eager for the kill, and Keith had let him—

He can’t think about it. He can’t. 

For a moment, he thinks about calling Kolivan. But what can he do? His term’s not up, and there isn’t a “family emergency” or anything he can concoct to get away; Kolivan knows very well that he has no one. Reporting Shiro isn’t a real option; what he does is legal, unless it’s deemed “excessive”—and Keith has no proof of that. 

Besides, he can kiss his career goodbye if he up and abandons his post. 

First things first—his priority is the coyote.

* * *

Keith calls around and finds a sanctuary that’s a long drive but at least in the general area. In the meantime, Keith tries to keep the coyote in the cabin as much as he can, but there’s not much he can do if it heads for the wilderness. He considers a collar—maybe with a tracker—though he’s not sure what good it will do if the hunters are in long distance range. But still—that might give people a pause.

His best bet is to wait for tranquilizers; he’d recently put in an order, not daring to mess around with human medicine or herbs. 

Still, no one comes for him. The people in town still treat him the same. No one mentions the coyote, at all. 

Has Shiro not told anyone? What game is he playing? Does he want to keep an easy kill to himself? Why wait so long?

Keith reaches for the phone and dials.

* * *

Shiro had offered to come over, but Keith doesn’t want him anywhere near the cabin. “It’s a conversation best had in person,” he’d said. 

So he gassed up the truck and rode out, internally fuming. The scenery, with its rolling grass and wide skies, does nothing to entice him to relax; he doesn’t even stop for the sight of bison moving lazily in the distance. Even when he pulls up to a familiar-looking ranch, the two horses in the pasture don’t cheer him up. 

The knock on the door is more appropriate for a mob boss coming to collect. 

Shiro opens the door right away. He looks no different from any other day, and, for some reason, it unsettles him: is Shiro so unaffected by his discovery? Their meeting? Keith? Or is it a sign of normalcy, an attempt at putting him at ease? 

“Please,” he says. “Come in.” 

Keith does, stepping slowly over the threshold. Shiro hangs by the stove, hand hovering the kettle. “Do you want…?” 

“No,” Keith says sharply. “I want to know this: why did you lie to me, _Kuron_?”

Shiro winces, but says carefully, “Shiro is a nickname. That part is true. A Garrison buddy…owed me a favor. My real name, my last name—it’s Shirogane.” 

“Garrison,” Keith repeats. “The _Galaxy_ Garrison?”

He remembers a mission, long ago, hushed up as quickly as it began. A crash, with other scientists on board and a pilot—

Takashi Shirogane. 

“And I didn’t want to be him forever,” Shiro continues. “Here, in the middle of nowhere, there’s a place to hide—and as someone with acres and acres of land between myself and people—” 

Keith interrupts, “Is it even yours?” 

“I bought it,” Shiro says, with a pained look. “The Garrison—they gave me hush money. And I don’t know why I picked here, just that I loved Yellowstone as a kid and this place—"

“I don’t care that you’re Takashi Shirogane,” Keith cuts in. It’ll probably hit him later, but for now, that’s at the bottom of his list of things to worry about. “I care that you won’t hurt—or let anyone else—hurt the coyote.” 

Shiro’s lips tighten. “Coyotes aren’t pets, Keith.” 

“I know they aren’t,” Keith snaps. “But…”

“But,” Shiro mimics. “They’re wild animals.” 

“And I’m not some city person who’s only experience with animals are their pets,” Keith retorts. 

Shiro’s quiet for a moment. “I won’t hurt your coyote,” he says. 

It’s reasonable. It’s almost sweet. But… “What about the others?” 

“Others?”

“I saw the photo. The one with the dead coyote.” 

Shiro closes his eyes, leans against the counter. His right hand’s clenched, gleaming in the sunlight. “I didn’t. Keith, someone did that and let me know because it was on my land.”

“But you didn’t object,” Keith says slowly. 

“No.”

Keith steps back, away from Shiro. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, almost pleadingly. “I’m not one of those crazy prize-fighting hunters.” 

“Still,” Keith replies, “it makes me sick.” 

Shiro looks at Keith with so much surprise that it throws him, then makes him angry. 

“So, what, it’s your occupation? That’s your excuse? As long as you’re not taking down a hundred at a time, that’s okay?” There’s so much he can quote from his paper, from organizations, from his own stories of seeing about a hundred pelts strung up in a row like a crucifixion, but he knows those arguments aren’t meant for an outburst. 

“I don’t set up traps or collect bounties—”

His voice is so calm, as if he’s disengaged. Part of him wants Shiro to fight with him; if Shiro believes in it so much, he should deliver his arguments with more passion, not repeat mantras or revert back to simple excuses. 

“What’s your next argument? Population control? They can reduce their litter sizes if there’s less food around, but if you’re just hunting them, they bounce back, quicker than you think, because they sense there’s less of them. It’s _temporary._ ”

This time, Shiro has a definite edge in his voice: “They’re _predators_. They kill.” 

“Your sheep? Your goats? If a military institution gave you _hush money...”_

“I _have_ money, Keith. This isn’t about my livelihood—” 

“If it’s not that, then why?” Keith demands. “What?” Shiro’s silent, and that makes Keith angrier, if possible. “You don’t need this ranch, your animals, to survive. That’s what you said.” 

Shiro closes his eyes. “You don’t understand.” 

His foot hits the threshold. 

“I guess I don’t,” Keith says, and shuts the door behind him.

* * *

That night, he lets the coyote sleep in the bed, something he’s never allowed, even when it was a pup. It noses at the sheets, pawing blankets almost off the bed, and eventually settles with a huff. 

Keith sleeps on the floor, curled at the foot of his bed with a blanket. He can’t help but replay the conversation with Shiro, dark thoughts creeping up on him. What if Shiro knew before? What if it was his ploy, to get close to him so he could more easily stake out his prey? 

No. Shiro’s not that cruel. And all of that can’t be a lie. 

_All of what?_ he thinks. So, they’ve ridden horses together and had sex, once. It’s not a marriage proposal. It’s not even a relationship. 

And who cares? Keith rolls over. It doesn’t matter, not really. If he had nothing, he didn’t lose anything. 

_If you don't remember it, it doesn’t hurt,_ he repeats. It’s easier and easier to forget the exact cadence of his dad’s voice, his bedtime stories, even his face. It’s mostly faded to the point of when picturing his dad, Keith can only see a photo he has tucked away in his belongings. 

And others, too—he’s forgotten a lot of them once he’s moved. The towns, the names, everything. When he leaves here, it’ll be more of the same.

* * *

He dreams of fire, mixed with the creaky beds of the home, muffling sobs into a pillow, blankets pulled over his head, a fist stuffed in his mouth. He’s learned that he can’t cry, that it’s only a target for taunts and beatings from the older boys, that he has to stop, but he can still remember the smoke filtering into the room, arms crushing him against a stiff firefighter’s jacket, choking him so he can’t breathe without pain—

And his lungs feel different now, not dry and brittle, but something’s filling them and he opens his eyes, sputtering and gasping as water pours into his mouth, his nostrils, his eyes. The water is warm, but when he sticks a hand out, the air is cool—the cabin door is open—and fingers wrap around his outstretched one. He kicks, hitting metal, but he’s lifted out, someone setting him on the floorboards with his name whispered in a familiar voice—

Keith wakes up to the coyote nestled at his side, and takes a long, shivering breath.

* * *

The tranquilizers come to his P.O. box in a discreet package, and Keith tries not to feel mournful when he walks out of the postal office. He’ll have to stock his truck and wait for the coyote to return, preferably in the morning. And—

“Keith!” 

He keeps walking, faster. 

“Keith!” 

A passer-by turns to stare, and Keith forces himself to keep going, wishing he hadn’t parked his truck so far away from the building. 

“Keith! Please!” 

A hand grabs his wrist, and he’s ready to reel back and punch, but remembers they’re in public. “Let go of me,” he snaps. 

“Please.” Shiro’s hat is sideways, a funny and endearing thing if Keith wasn’t so angry. “Listen to me. I need to tell you something. But not here. Please.” His eyes are wide, desperate, and he looks like he hasn’t slept. 

The door to Hunk’s cafe opens, and Keith tells himself that’s the only reason why he agrees. “Fine. I don’t want any gossip on the open street.” 

He can feel the eyes of the town watching them head to his truck. Shiro follows him like a kicked dog, and Keith has to avoid Romelle’s stare when he reaches the little parking lot by her shop. 

He gets in the driver’s seat and slams the door behind him. “What?” 

“You’re right. You don’t know who I am. But...Keith, first, I will never hurt your coyote, or let anyone know about him. Please know that.” At Keith’s silence, Shiro continues. “I lied to you. I did come out here after...the accident. But I didn’t come alone.” 

Shiro takes a deep breath. “I was only going to stay here for a while, but I knew why I picked this place. My fiance used to live here, with his family. They owned a ranch—an actual one, not a small thing like mine. He let me stay at his place.” He looks down at his hands, folded on his lap. “We had argued before the mission, about me spending so much time working. I had a disease—it's under control now—and I thought I would die young and thought throwing myself into life would make up for it. 

“We were going to break off our engagement, but decided to wait until after the mission. He’s the one who whisked me away here, to get away from the Garrison. He was going to retire, and we were going to settle down. Finally.

“Being alone together didn’t make everything go away. We had arguments, and being out in the middle of nowhere, with no family or friends—it could only escalate. One night, I just...snapped. Stormed off in the middle of the night and went for a walk. 

“But it was still a new place. I didn’t take a horse, which might have helped me go back. And if I hadn’t gotten lost, he wouldn’t have gone looking for me—” 

Keith wants to say, _You don’t have to finish this._ But if Shiro came up all this way, anticipating a rejection and still willing to tell his story, he has enough respect to hear it out. 

“I got to a neighbor’s. I phoned home, but no one answered, so I left a message. It wasn’t until the morning that…” Shiro’s voice is trembling. “Someone found him, but they couldn’t get him to a hospital in time. He was...I wasn’t there. And I couldn’t go back and couldn’t...so I stayed.”

A horrible thought comes to Keith. “Your cabin…?”

Shiro shakes his head. “No. That part is true; it’s my own. Too many memories for…anyway. Even if your opinion of me doesn’t change, I just wanted to let you know that I’m not who you think I am. And nothing has been right, since Adam. Not until you.” 

Keith takes it all in. 

“I’m sorry,” he says at last. “I didn’t know. And I might have...just yelled at you, with my own assumptions. I...really cared— _care_ —for you and thought—well, that’s why I was so angry.” That sounds terrible. “I mean—” 

“I think I know what you mean,” Shiro says. 

Shiro’s lips are chapped, but his mouth is gentle, gentle as his hands, which cup around Keith’s face as delicately as holding glass. Keith responds, despite knowing there’s surely more people staring at them through the windows of his truck or Romelle’s place. 

“Your coyote,” Shiro says when they break away. “Does he have a name?” 

He’s trying. “No,” Keith says. “He’ll tell me it when he’s ready.”

And when Shiro laughs, Keith knows things will be okay.

* * *

“I’ve never done this before,” Keith repeats, for the tenth time. The scissors are still poised over Shiro’s head. “I could mess this up.” 

“I trust you,” Shiro says. He reaches up, briefly fingers the end of the long strands, still dripping water onto the cabin floor. “Besides, I think it’s time for this to go.” 

Keith’s flattered at the trust, but his hands had still trembled with nervousness as he washed Shiro’s hair, massaging his scalp in slow, small circles, then painstakingly combing it into a part that makes the hair fall down his sides and the rest flush against Shiro’s neck. Shiro had shivered when the tip of the comb nudged a piece of hair away, dragged against his scalp, and Keith wonders how long it’s been since he’s allowed someone to touch him. 

As he ties up the front part of the hair (according to many a YouTube video), Keith briefly winds it around his hand. It swings thickly like a horse’s tail, but there’s evidence that Shiro probably spends about a minute scattering soap and rinsing it off just as quickly. To be fair, there aren’t a lot of hair salons down here—Romelle once told him she drove two hours to get her hair done, which makes sense, given her glossy mane of corn husk-yellow—but he suspects it’s more than that. 

“I don’t have clippers or anything,” Keith says, mostly to fill the silence. “So if this comes out looking terrible, blame me.” 

“I have electric sheep shearers back home,” Shiro suggests. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

Shiro shrugs underneath the towel draped around his shoulders. “The only person that sees me is you. I can tell you the sheep and goats don’t care.” 

“But the horses do?” 

Shiro’s lips upturn slightly. “I think Atlas will miss nibbling on it.” 

He expects Shiro to flinch when the first cut begins, but the strand of hair falls soundlessly to the floor without an incident. There’s a slight, very slight trace of heavier breathing, mostly from Keith, who alternates between holding his breath and panting like it’s over ninety degrees. 

“You’re doing great,” Shiro says encouragingly. 

“You can’t even see.” 

“Still. This beats hacking at it with scissors used to cut twine off of hay barrels.” 

Measure. Cut. “Probably.” He tries to keep his fingers steady, using them as a guide to keep the lines straight. “What’s with the change?” 

“Hot weather,” Shiro says. “Normally, I tie it up, but I...just wanted a change.” Another snip. “As long as it’s not a crew cut. I haven’t...since the Garrison.” A pause. “My grandfather, he used to cut my hair in that terrible bowl shape. It was almost a relief to shave it off.” 

Between cuts, Shiro continues, slow and halting, how he got recruited. He had sneaked out of band practice to take the test, much to his grandfather’s dismay, and took the tests in a room where the air conditioner decided to give out once he sat down. He wanted to see the stars, and when he got there, threw himself into the rigorous pace of it all, especially after his grandfather died. He says nothing about his parents, Keith notices. 

It becomes like a slow game of catch. Shiro talks about meeting Adam in a class that forced semester-long lab partners and a brief, chaste kiss in the hallway, Keith about how the electricity cut out and how he and Regris spent hours in the dark in a tentative exploration. Keith mentions the relief when he’d trekked miles to his first outpost and knew he was alone, while Shiro recounts his first mission crammed with Matt Holt and his father and seeing Earth disappear behind him. 

The homes, the missions, the loneliness, the fear, turning eighteen and getting kicked out for good, running away after clearing out his inheritance, not hearing a word from anyone, radio silence from so-called friends and coworkers, back and forth, a giving and an understanding. 

When Keith’s finished, he puts down the scissors and turns on his phone to selfie mode, handing it to Shiro. “Think we’ll need to shave your head?” 

Shiro grins. He looks more handsome than ever, unburdened and with the hair out of his eyes. “I think you did perfect.”

* * *

Keith senses Shiro is hesitant, but he’s willing to try this for him and the knowledge fills him like hot soup. He tells the coyote this, and it looks at him like it understands, with serious eyes and a short lick to his palm. Maybe, he thinks, he ought to give the coyote a name sometime. 

When Shiro comes over, he’s dressed in shorts that frame his thighs in a way that’s almost borderline indecent. “Laundry day,” he says, when he catches Keith staring. 

“Sure,” Keith wryly says, opening the door. 

The coyote is sniffing the floor, licks it once, probably trying to get the residue of the bacon Keith accidentally dropped this morning. Shiro’s foot hovers over the threshold before stepping forward, hand (the metal one, Keith notices) moving forward as if to let it sniff, but he pulls back at the last moment. 

The coyote stares at him, for so long that Keith begins to get nervous. 

Then, it trots over and sits, very quietly, at Shiro’s feet. 

Shiro glances at Keith, with his eyebrows raised. “...Did you teach him that?” 

“No,” Keith says. “He’s just very smart.” He strides forward, stretching its ears in a way that makes the coyote go boneless beneath his touch. “See?” 

“You tamed him.” 

“Not really,” Keith says. “But what you said about Atlas, it made me feel something similar. Helping him...it was like healing.”

He curses his inarticulate words, but they seem to reach Shiro, who crouches down, the coyote still waiting for him to make the first move.

Keith moves over to the fridge and gets out a bit of meat, placing it in Shiro’s palm, and Shiro, very carefully, extends a hand forward again. He drops the morsel on the floor, and the coyote laps it up, then bumps his nose against Shiro’s knee. 

“It’s _cold_ ,” Shiro says, as if it’s a novel discovery, and Keith laughs, pressing a kiss on his cheek.

* * *

The winter will be long and cold. 

Shiro’s already stocked up, knowing the months can be dark and lonely and often frustratingly boring. He’s had to string a clothesline to feel his way back to the barn, has had milk blown out or frozen in the pail, even brought in his animals in the house a few times. Often, signal’s terrible and all you can do is sit in front of the fireplace and wait for a better day. 

He was driven here by scandal and shame, and had been lonely for years by choice. There was no one around and he never invited anyone else in, until Keith came. And with that, the nights—and the days—were warmer with a body nestled close to his side, and he never complained. They have their sheep and goats and horses and one coyote, still nameless, and the occasional visitors who are okay with the large, panting “dog.” (They’ve settled on a cobbled backstory—half coyote, half-dog, found abandoned in the woods. So far, no one’s questioned it.)

They don’t live together, not yet, but they plan on residing at Shiro’s during the winter. It’s an easy task to close off the little cabin—and they’ll need to stock up on gas, because when the weather’s nice, Keith still has to do his rounds. Or he’ll take one of the horses—they don’t know the details except one: 

They’ll be here together next winter, and the next, and for many after. 


End file.
